Complacency of The Beta
by Complacency of The Learned
Summary: Called the greatest story of our century, the Complacency series has been finally remastered to a smaller, easy-to-read 6-part series by a group of talented writers dedicated to the story's cause. Book One- Beta- tells the story of a Heir, a Knight, A Witch, and a Seer, and how their actions lead to the birth of their Apocalypse. Warning: Contains highly triggering content.
1. Prolouge

Read this carefully; I dislike repeating myself, even though I am fairly sure I will be repeating myself often.

What follows in this series of highly unfortunate, somewhat true events, written down in these gargantuan tomes is not an epic of humorous nature. This is an Odyssey of Misery, containing a web of tales of tragic, almost pathetically written woe. Each string contains its own rings of evils and mistakes- one for each character, for each situation.

Unfortunately, I can neither confirm nor deny their accuracy. That is up to you, as a reader, to adjudicate. However, I can admit that I have manipulated various occurrences for the sake of my crux to be plain to those with the sense to understand it. To some, they will be pages upon pages of complete and utter nonsense. They will throw this book in the trash, burn it, protest it, and obviously insult it. Still, I know this book will be taken and read by those who need to desperately see it.

In these six books, I have recorded things that have happened, things that are happening, and things that will happen. They are what I have Seen, what I wish to convey, and what I have simply made up to suit my fancy (though I promise, the third ties closely with the first). The melancholy of it all is bittersweet, now that I lament on it- certain things I have seen will occur whether I interfere or not, and in certain situations, I would gladly offer my entire soul in exchange for them to simply not happen. But I cannot; to think I could do such a thing would be absolutely silly. One cannot stop Time. Yet… the sweetness is present, I must admit.

Because I can taste that sweetness is why I wrote this introduction. There will come a time when the sky is bright, and the future is hopeful. Quite possibly, you might even find certain things humorous. Even in the grimmest of settings, a moment can resemble joy. I beg of you, my reader; please, cherish them. They will be hard to find. Not only for you, but for the poor souls in these books.

I wrote this specifically for you, but doubtlessly you have skipped through it, circumvented it in hopes of beginning the Epic of The Incandescent Cherub.

In the beginning, I told you to examine this carefully. If you are possibly scanning through the pages in hopes the words "gay wizard sex" appears in the same grammatically correct sequence as "and then they had", then by all means, find something better. This book was not meant for you to grasp anyhow, so you reading this is pointless. In fact, make yourself useful and go read another book about wizards and brag about how you understand it. I am sure everyone will think you are so intelligent for reading those, truly.

I wrote this introduction to plainly state that the first Epic will not include the Cherub. In fact, the poor dear will hardly be mentioned.

This book, however, is about their birth- not their actual birth, of course, as that is actually quite gruesome to describe. No, I mean the events that accrued over a certain time, Cascading down into a climactic end that led to not only their story, but the stories revolving around theirs as well. In short, this entire book is the prologue. I guarantee, however, you might just find this story as equally compelling as the Cherub's. Unfortunately, if you choose to skip this book and move on to the Cherub, I wish you good luck, due to the doubtless fact that you will be horribly lost. But who am I to stop you?

As believed in the Theory of Everything, all events are linked, and will have their own, crucial part in creating their own end.

But let us begin, shall we? I myself am growing bored of myself, and I'm writing the damn thing.


	2. Chapter 1

It is said in ancient folklore that every creature bestowed with power and purpose is not born like a normal being. They are not birthed simply from a womb; they arise from their true element, bequeathed to those who deserve such a gift.

A special child came to a Prince during the month of Shade, which was the country's fourth godly month. The prince, a younger man who had just begun his life of duty, came to find one day, after retiring to his chamber for the night, a little baby nestled on his pillow. The window was wide open, the doors blown off the hinges, as though by some unyielding gale. It was his only hint as to the origin of the babe's presence.

The prince was filled with deep charm and love for the little one almost instantly. It was hard not be charmed by the little boy, actually; his round-cheeked giggle was heart-melting.

He was a paternal man to his very core. He, who had lost his love to plague, could only see a potential son and feel only glee.

The little boy had eyes as blue as the sky, and as watery as they were, he did not cry. He merely gazed into the prince's, as though he recognized him from some past life. It was a strange thing, to have his gaze rest on him. It brought no fear; quite the opposite, it was quite adorable to have him smile in the innocent way he could manage. The prince, obviously seeing this as a sign from the Gods, adopted him as his son without a moment's notice.

The boy would be known as the Heir.

The child of wonder, with eyes opened wide, was the star of kingdom quickly. Even the Queen found favor in him, for the short time that she saw him. Once his powers were deemed worthy of the throne, she forbade his presence. This was not uncommon in their culture. Queens were worshipped just as the Gods were, and if she ordered that she not see her son or grandson, it was to be so. It pained the prince on a deep level that was masked by his greater love for the blue-eyed Heir. It was as if he had a face of blankness when referring to the Queen, and his discontent with her cowardice was plain. The Heir was just a boy, after all. What harm could he cause?

Anyways, back to the boy. Yes, the boy was quiet, like a gentle breeze, and his father cherished him more than he cherished his Gods… which, in hindsight, was his ruination.

But that will come in time.

As one has already guessed, what one is witnessing is the classic hierarchy of royalty, as petty as such a thing is. Just as there was a family of royalty, richly blue as the rare strip of sky, there was its brother family. While the royalty were more scholars and intellectuals, the brother family was a collection of warriors whose banner was a brilliant, passionate ruby. They trained to defend the people, and, most importantly, the royalty, and did so with a skill unparalleled in any other nation.

The leader of this family, whose name really doesn't matter, would come to discover his own son during the month of Heat and Snow- the final month of the godly year. As he sat, contemplating the workings of a sonnet the prince had given him, a terrible shriek erupted from the hearth along with a tower of flame. There was a hiccup, and then a loud, heart-wrenching sob that echoed in the air. When this nameless leader investigated, he found (to very much his surprise) that a baby lay among the embers, seemingly unharmed despite the scorching heat. It was as if the child was born like a phoenix from the fire, with eyes as red as the twilight sun.

And oh, how the boy wailed. It was like he was witnessing Hell through those eyes. He howled in terror and agony on a daily basis, and no amount of coddling and calming music could soothe him. Doctors examined him, sacrifices were made on his behalf, and even the prince took a close look at the poor thing. Nothing was wrong, and yet nothing worked to ease his suffering. Eventually, the leader grew weary and annoyed at the child instead of piteous, denounced him as a son for fear of shame, and called him his brother instead. He was not educated in the ways of affection as the Heir's father; in fact, in his eyes, such affection was pathetic and unwise. However, as he was the prince's guard, his brother would become the Heir's. He, the servant and guard to the Heir, would be his Knight.

From the very beginning, the two boys kindled a strong bond. The moment they were introduced as infants, the Heir toddled over to the Knight and sat next to him, pulling and playing with his tiny tunic as he wailed and squirmed. Without any warning, the Heir clumsily hit him, mumbling infant talk. It was then that the Knight, after two years, finally stopped crying. It simply faded, leaving the blonde to stare at the other in puzzlement.

Suddenly, to the father and leader's delight, they giggled and wrestled, clinging to the other when they grew too weary. Their relationship, despite concern, was not merely servant and master. Their relationship was of brothers, ones that would rather die than harm the other. Having no other names, they referred to each other as "Heir" and "Knight", and in their eyes, it was quite all right.

Ironically, as time passed and the two grew, their personalities were swapped. The Heir became animated and loud, smiling like a hound in the midst of play, while the Knight became almost sobering in personality, calm and collected in nature.

Never, however, in the Knight's many days did he show any sign of discontent around his prince. If anything, the Heir was his second god, whom he looked up to with all his adoration- or rather, down, being that he was a tad taller than the other. In the hour where witches crawl on all fours, he would steal away from his room on the farther side of the castle to see the Heir, deliberately disobeying his brother. Into his room he would creep, and then into his bed he would crawl, curling up next to the other for warmth until the blue-eyed prince awoke to greet him. The Knight loathed waking him from his dreams; they were very dear to his prince, he knew, and he could never bring himself to ruin the serenity that dwelled on his face.

On one particular night, when both boys were on the cusp of adolescence, the Knight dashed to the Heir's room, long legs giving his steps a soft, flight-like pace. That night was the eve of the Heir's birthday- and, as per tradition, that very next day, the gods would grace him with a new name. The Knight craved the chance to be the first to hear the Heir whisper his name. Therefore, like he had so many years previous, he snuck into the Heir's room, disregarding the loud creak of the oak wood door.

The Heir was still awake, writing swiftly in a small, black book, the shadows under his eyes stating he'd been awake all that night. Upon hearing his door open, his head snapped up, round, blue eyes widening with alarm. However, upon seeing it was merely his crib mate, he smiled gleefully, placing his book away.

"Evening," He greeted, voice a tad hoarse and drifting from lack of sleep. "I think it's much too late for you to be here, boy. " His smile was mischievous, eyes twinkling with boyish mirth.

The Knight rolled his eyes, the corners of his lips curling a tad. "Your name will be bestowed to you tomorrow; how can I not wish to see such jubilant occasion? Enough teasing, friend, or that gambit of yours will be punished," he chastised, also having a lighthearted tone to his voice.

"By who- you?" The Heir retorted, brow rising.

"Absolutely." The Knight leapt onto the other's bed, causing them both to bounce and collide with each other. Both let out a groan of pain, the Knight clutching his head and the Heir holding his jaw. After a moment, however, they burst into a fit of giggles. "Ah, forgive me, my friend. I shouldn't hurt you as a birthday gift. In fact, I will make it up by delivering you a present twice the girth of the one I hunted-"

"No, no. Don't bother, Knight. I don't believe I can survive another one of your 'pets'," He interrupted quickly. Though he treated each gift with the respect it deserved, he couldn't help but feel uneasy at the thought of another stuffed kill.

They fall into a small quiet, the Heir using the Knight's back as a pillow. "…Tomorrow, my name will be known to all… It causes me to tremble with anticipation…" He lifts his head, the Knight turning to listen. "…What… what if my name is foolish, like 'Figglewort'? Or even 'Habersnapper'!?" He sighed, obvious, honest worry gracing his features. Only around the Knight did these concerns grow so plain, for his life required an almost statuesque façade of cheeriness.

Cupping his jaw with both hands, the Knight leaned forward, forehead pressing against the other's. "I swear, you will have a name so splendid, all the land and sea will speak of it in song."

The blue-eyed prince hummed, smiling thankfully up at the other. "Gods, I give thanks for this level headed boy to guide me," he mumbled, laying his head upon the Knight's shoulder. "…What say you, my Knight? What would you name me?"

The Knight flushed light pink, nuzzling the Heir's thick locks. "Oh Gods, do not question me with such things. I'm definitely not gifted with intelligence, Heir. Besides, I am merely your vassal. My word means nothing to you, save for the ones I give in the face of war."

Appalled by his out-of-character speech, the Heir scoffed, frowning. "You are a liar! Hold your silvery tongue, for I am the only one who speaks true here- your presence is not merely one for the sake of my security. You are my brother, whom has loved me more than any other." His eyes softened, orange undertones from the candlelight giving the color a deeper shade. "Hear me now, or forever be deaf- tomorrow, my life is to rest in your hands, just as I have yours resting close to my soul. Promise me I will never hear such blasphemy from you again."

The Knight sighed softly, head tilting to look away from the other. He felt utterly moved by the other's declaration; however, at the same time, he felt a sense of sadness. He knew his place, for it had been burned into his mind countless times. He was merely the sword that did the royal's bidding- nothing more, nothing less. He loathed lying to the Heir, but he simply could not bear to tell the other the truth about their society yet. "Yes…" He trailed off. "I do so solemnly swear." In a sudden burst, he smirked. "Besides, I jest. How could I not see myself as your equal? In fact, perhaps 'equal' should be saved for when your height is equal to mine, eh?" He teased, shoving the Heir playfully.

The Heir responded in kind to him, tackling him and attempting to pin the other until both were too exhausted to move another inch. Faces flushed and sleep weighing heavy on their bodies, they grasped the other's hands as a silent oath boys tend to make. By the time the candle expired, both boys were sound asleep, hands still loosely clasped.

Morning peeked quickly, thankfully. Birds began to sing praise of the importance of the day, and the preparations for that night began as quickly as the servants could awaken.

As the Heir awoke, it was to the sound of the Knight's steady, gentle breathing, chirping, and a soft ringing in his ears. As he sat up, disturbing the other boy in his sleep in process, he contemplated the importance of the day with an odd sense that one gets when one dreams. The out-of-body emotion that renders the human numb, though the sense is a comfortable one, it pulsed inside him, reminding him that today, he had a name.

Yet… he could not recall it. Not yet. He pondered this conundrum, a deep set frown upon his face.

"Heir…do you know your name yet?" came a grumble from the pillow.

"…No."

"Hm. Well then… fuck."

"Aye. Well put."

Just then, the door creaked open, and in came the Heir's father, grinning dazzlingly and balancing a small cake on a silver tray in his palm. "I am assuming that the swear came from the one still asleep…?" He smirked good-naturedly, eyes resting on the twisted form that was the Knight. "I cannot recall allowing you a slumber party, sir."

The Heir's face flushed deeply, head turning downward in submission. "Th-The blame rests on me, my lord…" he murmured.

His hair was lightly tousled. "My boy, I do not condemn you for sneaking the Knight in here. I envy you for having such familiarity with him," He stated, taking a seat on the bed. "Wake, boy," he added, nudging the blonde.

The Knight, grumbling lowly, did raise from the mattress, hair a tousled, white-blonde mess and a pout set firmly on his lips. "Your father is a cruel man."

Ignoring him, the Heir's father offered his son the cake. "For you, son. I made it with my own hands," He declared, chest puffing out slightly with pride in his skills.

The Heir, however, was not impressed in the slightest. In fact, he groaned in displeasure. "Father, you know I hate sweets. You and the Queen eat it like they were your only sustenance, but I can't stand the taste it leaves on the tongue…" He frowned. "The bile-inducing aftertaste reminds me of… displeasuring things."

The Knight's grumpy expression softened into a confused, slightly worried one. "…Heir? Are you alright? Does something bother you?"

He received a gentle curve of lips. "Just upset that I'm not allowed to see my own Queen, once again-"

His father cleared his throat. "Enough of that, none of that. This is not a moment to bring past things up." He interceded quickly, standing with the same speed. "Boy, this will be placed on your table later. I expect you to eat at least a slice of it…If only to please me, would you?" He looked like he was both desperate and weary, and it wasn't even the afternoon.

"He will, my lord," The Knight answered, hand settling on the Heir's back. "…My young lord, I think it's best you begin your preparations for the festival today, yes?" He said in a low voice.

The Heir's smile suddenly grew three times its size, his darker thoughts abandoned. "Oh, absolutely! The one thing I love more than you is parties, dearest friend!" He teased, his grin practically glowing with mischief. His father's eyebrows rose high into his brow.

The Knight made several, rather strange choking sounds, his fist clenching the Heir's nightgown. Though they teased each other brutally in such a way constantly, it was very improper in the face of the Heir's father. "Forgive me, my lord, I have no idea why he said that. I'll hurry him along, don't worry," He stated in a rushed tone, rising from the bed only to bow. "Forgive me."

The king-to-be made a low, humming sound in the back of his throat. "…Alright then. See to that. Wouldn't want my boy to be late to his own party, now would he?" He turned on his heel, making his way to the door as though he'd been presented with strange, unsettling news. As he walked through the portal leading to the rest of the castle, he inclined his head to look at the boys. "…Please exercise proper behavior. We wouldn't want the Queen punishing us all, would we?"

The Knight nodded, though the Heir seemed befuddled. What did he mean by that? What was wrong with a little fun?

Without another word, his father left, and the Knight, his posture relaxing, went to quick work getting the Heir up, washed, face prepared, and clothed. He did so with practiced precision, having taken the place of all his other personal servants due to his lord's discomfort with anyone seeing him so literally naked.

It was at least half an hour later, however, that the Heir inquired about his father's strange words. "…There is…a certain social order in the world outside this room, friend," the Knight stated flatly, brushing the gentle curls of his companion's hair. "Two boys being so close is very… Unorthodox. It's best you don't really know the details of it yet, I think. But your father was merely stating that the way we behave around each other would not bode well with the queen."

"Well, damn what she says! If she wants to govern my relationships, she can tell me that herself instead of these hush-hush references to her. I'm tired of my actions being guided by an old woman I've never seen before."

"…Such words, said by any other, warrants death, Heir."

"…And will you kill me, then?"

The Knight's hands flinched. After a small pause, he shook his head, releasing the Heir. "You look pleasant, my lord," He complimented, voice displaying obvious nerves.

The Heir grinned, eyes holding a forgiving light. Even with such a tense morning, all was forgiven in his eyes.

The Knight, despite his seemingly low intelligence, did have an artistic quality that aided the Heir greatly when clothes were involved. Today, he wore his finest; a silk tunic, color as blue as his eyes, with silver thread woven around the sleeves and ends to resemble to wind from which he was born. Underneath, he wore a white wool turtleneck to hide improper body lines, and white leggings underneath. The sleeves to his undergarments reached far past the ones of his tunic, stopping at a slope to show his hands, which were adorned with white leather gloves. On his feet were slippers of the same blue, silver thread and jewels embedded into it, the toes slightly curved in a somewhat ridiculous manner. It was a very ridiculous outfit, in actuality. His was a tamed, curly mess, his bangs pushed back and held back by a silver circlet.

"Ah, but wait…the final touch," The Knight declared, procuring the Heir's most prized possession from his pocket- the Heir's spectacles. Without them, anything more than ten meters away from the royal boy was completely blurry. "Very fine, Heir." The blonde bowed, smirking a tad. "Now everyone can see your squishy face."

The Heir's so-called "squishy" face lit up with embarrassment. It was true- just as he'd been thirteen years ago, his pale face had roundness to it that the Knight lacked. While the Knight had high cheekbones and a thinner jaw, the Heir's was more of an oval. His father assured him he would grow out of it, and the boy counted down the days until that occurred.

"Just go and get changed, you harpy," he snapped, a definite pout set on his lips. "You tease too much." And no sooner had he said that did he realize the irony in it.

The Knight caught it as well, and it brought forth a snort from him. "And thus the pot calls the kettle black, eh? Fine." He let out a huff of air, nudging the other on his way out. "Fine. I'll be going, then. Big Brother is probably worried sick about me. I'll see you at the fair. Try not to-"

"-Fall down the stairs, yes, I know." The Heir smirked. "You say that every time you leave me, yet you seem to fail to practice what you preach." Such words came in reference to the Knight's notorious clumsiness, naturally; as a boy, he'd fallen down different sets of stairs so many times it was a wonder he hadn't killed himself early on. Perhaps luck was to blame. Or, rather, the lack of unluckiness, considering having luck is generally the sign of oncoming doom.

"…Yes. That," The Knight agreed, his own face growing a little pink. "…Don't come to me unless you have a name, twit."

The Heir merely grinned toothily. The Knight, eyes rolling for the umpteenth time, quietly shut the door.

A few minutes passed with the Heir merely standing in front of his tall mirror, examining his form with a sense of curiosity. So, this was the Second Heir to the throne…? He hardly seemed like much. He barely even knew how to use magic. He was short, a tad flabby, and even a bit dopey. It was forced upon him that the Knight was of lower intelligence, but he had underlying doubts of that. The boy seemed inexplicably bright; even more so in comparison to the Heir. He hated that the other had such an impression. Social class forced him to belittle himself in favor of the Heir's own self-esteem, but all it did was leave a sour taste in his mouth.

He'd always wondered about the Knight. He was mildly aware of his lies, harmless as they were at times. He never asked about his relationship with his guardian. However, he did ask about the occasional limp that the Knight had, the small bruises he had on his face and body on a weekly basis. "Training sores", he called them. He always assumed he spoke the truth about that. They were merely bruises from righteous training. However, the Heir began to suspect that story wasn't entirely told. He never answered how he received them.

The Heir felt a sense of duty to the Knight, as previously established. Though the Knight was worried for the Heir's physical being, the Heir worried for the Knight's mental. As kind as he was, as playful and clever, the prince couldn't help but feel as though that was the mask he was given, and he was choosing to wear it dutifully. He began to ponder the possibility of his real face ever showing, and then the possibility of the face he's seen being that real one.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head as he moved away from the mirror. Gods, if began thinking too deeply about such things, he would have to fake his glee. And, naturally, the Knight would see right through him with his intense, red gaze…

Blast. Once again, his mind drifted. Enough, he thought to himself. Enough of this pondering about your friend. This is your day, Heir. You deserve to be as selfish as a court member's daughter.

He giggled softly, sighing again with a much lighter emotion. He was merely lonesome. He did always become thoughtful when he was lonesome…

He stood by his door, alone in his bedroom, ready to take his leave. As he did, it finally dawned on him that today, as it so happened, was his birthday. And as it so happened, today, he would finally have his own name. He was intrigued- what would his name be? Something silly, like Barfsmelcht? No, no. Much too silly.

As he stood alone, in the quiet of his room, a gentle breeze came through his always-open window. Somehow, on that gentle breeze, his name came with it.

With a tearful, joyous expression, he realized his name.

Zillyhoo- the Warrior God of the Winds.

Oh, how utterly fitting.


	3. Chapter 2

The blow was quick and decisive, as it always was. The hand, clenched tightly, was a practiced one, knowing two schisms and three bouts with the beasts that no longer plagued the land because of the owner's might. It knew where to hit, how hard, and how many blows to deal so that the owner's message was clear.

The owner, naturally, being Hephaestus, and the victim, naturally, being the Knight himself.

Except, of course, that the Knight shouldn't really be called the Knight any longer. He wasn't just a minor at lying to his prince- he was an expert. The key, he believed, was to believe in one's lie so well that one must remind themselves that it was a lie to begin with. And his lies were astronomical. One of them being that he hadn't already been given a name by his brother two days previously.

"Rise, Caledfwlch. Stand like a man."

The boy yelped like a pup as a boot connected with his gut, rolling him over onto his back and forcing the bile in his throat to be downed.

Caledfwlch, formerly and formally known as the Knight, coughed, blinking rapidly as stars danced in his vision. With a small whimper, he sat up, rubbing blood from his broken lip. He shot a dark look at his brother, hands gripping the knife strapped to his thigh. "Don't give me that look. You deserve this. Now get up and fight," came the response to his actions.

The boy, groaning lowly, did rise after a moment, legs wobbly and nearly purple from bruises- some old and some new. He was far too used to these punishments; therefore, his legs were far stronger because of it.

This may seem a tad abusive to outsider, but it simply wasn't so. This was normal. Caledfwlch was the heir to the family head, and must reflect such a title. The family he belonged to was one measured by their strength, and it wouldn't do to have a round-faced, doll-eyed, girlish boy sit at their throne. Strength had to be carved into his very core, even if it had to be achieved through daily, vigorous training; training that, yes, may seem like abuse. But it wasn't so. From the age of five, Caledfwlch was molded into shape, like a ball of red clay, by his master, teacher, and brother. Hephaestus was, indeed, an artist. With his kicks, the Knight's legs grew longer and faster. With his punches, his stomach became taught and arms became strong.

His brother didn't knock him about randomly, of course. It was a daily regimen for Caledfwlch. It had been started late due to his lollygagging with Zillyhoo, which explained the intense, less-than-helpful beating.

The boy growled, eyes aflame with determination. He would prove himself today; he had no choice. He had a fierce loyalty to Hephaestus, despite all the wounds dealt to him by said man. There was no pain that could be given that Caledfwlch could not and would not bear, especially when the elder believed he could. He felt close to his brother through their strife, as though it was the only way they could connect was through the heat of battle. Caledfwlch had to prove to him that his artwork was not in vain.

There were times, however, where the battlefield was not the place of connection. Other times, merely the act of brutally teasing the other-one playing a far-fetched, even hair-brained joke and the other attempting to outwit the first without succumbing to the original plot- was enough to stimulate interaction between the two. Caledfwlch found those the most pleasant of times, because he was able to get a rise from Hephaestus on occasion.

He knew that no human was an iron wall. Emotions were a sad side effect to being born as Homo sapiens, and his brother (as much as Caledfwlch's admiration for Hephaestus tells him it wasn't true) was a human. He lived for the moments where the heat of the family flame didn't burn their thread of connection, for when it was merely he and his brother. He was able to see the side that most didn't- the side that loved him.

He even caught him smiling once; or, perhaps, it was an illusion projected in his mind in hopes to have some sort of reciprocated affection. Hephaestus, outside of public words of praise and nods of respect, didn't show much love for Caledfwlch. The Knight didn't know the life that the Heir lived; the life of doting, loving fathers who held their children throughout their lives. The Knight knew of a guardian that cared for him by teaching him to care for himself, without the hugging, the kissing of the foreheads, the gentle words. It wasn't a very far-fetched notion to say that the Knight had some envious sins stirring in his gut at the sight of the father and son. However, he felt no resentment towards his guardian- only grim understanding. The mind of the head of the red family was a labyrinth, stealthily built with traps and false turns and invisible walls.

But Hephaestus was not a heartless man; he did, in fact, care for his little brother… somehow. In some strange level of that maze. In a very minute way. Possibly ironically.

After all, he let Caledfwlch defend himself; that enough was an indication that he had training in mind instead of punishment. However, the boy had no hope in defeating the skilled lieutenant general. He himself was considered to just be a lowly squire still, despite his title being Knight and despite his branch being on the main one of their family oak. It would take years of this training to succeed in being on his brother's level.

Caledfwlch lunged, grabbing his sword as he passed it and beating it roughly against his Hephaestus' shield. "You can't let your fury make you foolish," Hephaestus scolded in his drawling, smooth-as-melted-iron voice, knocking him aside as if he was a tiny bird. The younger made a loud, frustrated noise, growing weary and impatient after the two hours they'd been fighting like this. For every lunge, there was a round of punches and stomps following it, and he was growing angrier and angrier at his diminishing progress.

He, taking his guardian's words of advice to heart, analyzed the tall, sturdily built man before him- looked for weak spots (of course, there wasn't any) and openings (which lacked as well). Finally, upon accepting his inevitable, humiliating failure as another means of punishment, he relented, dropping his sword and sinking to his knees. Great shame overwhelmed him.

Hephaestus scowled, brow furrowing with displeasure. "…Very good, I suppose. You knew you were no match…However-" He stabbed the stone with his own sword, eyes a cold, calculated red. "-this is the world's greatest lesson. You fight until your last breath, and you will die in absolute glory…. Or you can live wishing you had."

Caledfwlch bowed his head. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to shame your teachings by leaving my room without permission; I merely wished to wish my young master a happy birthday," he stated clearly, sullenly.

His brother's form relaxed a tad, causing Caledfwlch to do the same. "…Pay this no mind. What's done is done. You've paid with your wounds. It's the Gods you have to beg to now. Rise, go find Carcino, and then prepare for the Heir's festival. You'll be competing in his name." His words were short and calm, and had they not followed the worst beating of Caledfwlch's week, he would have seemed relaxed for the first time.

The knight nodded, rising, hissing through his teeth as he limped away. He would have to bully Carcino for a healing draught as well, if he was to compete. No matter. As long as he could fool his brother into believing he was stronger from this, that the bruises were merely calluses, then he would gladly recreate the same violence with his cousin.

He knew, however, despite the elder's statement, that the issue was barely budging, let alone dropped. He would hear a storm from him that night. No doubt the repeat of what the Heir's father said, but with harsher words disguised in humor and a rant about the importance of the family name. Caledfwlch would be forced to remain stoic, as he normally was, and take the biting words as though they were beautiful poetry.

Caledfwlch sighed softly, whimpering a tad pitifully as he pushed the door open to Carcino's late father's study, glad to find that he was there solving a few equations on battlefield strategy instead of already at the prayer room. He hated walking down that hallway himself. Caledfwlch moved closer, observing the large numbers and messy scrawl of notes, the zeroes and crosses representing the friends and foes on a crudely drawn chart. He admired his cousin for his intelligence; it was something they both shared, yet Carcino had a far greater potential for it than he.

Carcino was a year younger than Caledfwlch, and had been named the same day as him. This was one of the many customs of the country, which dictated that all children of the same family are named on the same day as the eldest. More than likely, upon reaching the festival later that day, he would find the other members of the royal family with names. This was something most families knew; naturally, however, the Heir did not. In truth, it was not so much blamed on the Heir's sheltering as it was lack of understanding and ignorance that people took advantage of. Lessons on law would not be given to the young prince until after he was named, and he was just simply not given clear answers to his questions. All were guilty of this, even Caledfwlch.

Carcino was far different than his cousin; darker skin, with inky, black hair, which was so impossible to tame that he simply did not attempt to. His face was rounder than Caledfwlch's, yet it was not enough to strike anger in their leader. Caledfwlch and Hephaestus were anomalies with their light skin and hair.

His eyes were what made Caledfwlch and him so close. Due to the Gods' intervention, he possessed the bright red that his cousin did. As per custom, this made him somewhat of an understudy to the Knight; should the other fall, Carcino would take his place as the head.

Carcino, in his raspy voice, greeted the other shortly. "And unto you as well," Caledfwlch scoffed, making a loud noise of pain as he leg tapped against one of the chairs.

That caught the younger's attention immediately. "By the Gods, what the bloody fuck did he do to you!?" Carcino put down his chalk and rushed to Caledfwlch's side, putting his arm around him and helping the blond to the armchair by the fireplace. "Or, rather, what did you do to invoke this?"

Caledfwlch waved his hand in dismissal. "Same old, same old. Nothing that can't be fixed with one of your healing draughts," He hinted, head resting on an arm.

Carcino rolled his eyes. "Subtlety is truly your master." He walked over to an old, decaying cabinet, opening the aging, cedar doors to reveal a plethora of potions and draughts, each coordinated based on color and use. He took out a vial of runny, red liquid, corked with an iron stopper shaped like a cross. He took out the stopper, turning his head away from the fumes it released and approached Caledfwlch with it. "Here. Drink up, you ass. I'm not going to make another unless you're dying."

Caledfwlch feigned hurt, snatching the vial from Carcino and downing the contents of it before the fumes made his head hurt or turn purple or something. Immediately, he gagged, stomach lurching as his bruises and cuts accelerated through the healing process. He whimpered, slouching in his seat. "Ugh…Gods…I hate that."

"Then don't disappoint our lord Hephaestus. You_ are _his chosen one, after all. Plus, you should have eaten beforehand." Caledfwlch groaned in response and flipped his thumb at him, rising from the chair and sighing with relief as his legs became easier to stand on. Carcino blew a puff of air out, crossing his arms. "Come on, we're getting you cleansed before the Gods decide to lay eggs inside that empty head of yours."

Caledfwlch rolled his eyes, but, of course, did agree. Who knew what they'd do to him at this moment? He could be struck by a book about antigravity. Or accidentally be stabbed by Carcino. It was best not to risk it. They both left the study, falling in step like soldiers do.

Cleansing, as they put it, was their time of worship. It was the time of the day- didn't really matter the exact time- where they paid homage to their gods. Of course, there were many, many gods to do so. They chose certain gods to pray to, depending on what they desired. The Gods were expected to provide them with the desired power or thing in return. Today, Carcino suggested to pray to the God of War- воевать, considering Caledfwlch was simulating a battle later on. Caledfwlch argued with this a tad, suggesting that would lead to no good, but Carcino was far more religiously inclined than he- and that was saying quite a bit. "воевать is more for battle than a god of contest. It's rude to ask to win a single contest, it's far more polite to ask to destroy your enemies as a whole and practice restraint."

"Right. That… obviously makes sense, yes."

"No, you don't understand. Let me explain…"

Caledfwlch listened to him, considering taking notes but realizing he didn't bring paper. It was a dreadful shame, what Carcino said made more and more sense as he droned on about it.

Both boys were incredibly strong in their faith, as was the rest of their family. The Gods came first, even before their Queen… or so it should have been. The Queen, upon the day of her coronation long, long ago, declared herself a child of the Gods. Therefore, she was worshipped as if she was the flesh and blood version of them (hence her word being absolute law). The two even worshipped her, though for Caledfwlch, it left a sour taste in the back of his throat. He was certain he wasn't the only one.

He dare not say a word, because he loved the Queen.

Carcino and Caledfwlch made their way down the long, winding hallway, head turning from the artwork littering the corridor. They held a similar theme- giant, million legged beasts ripping people to shreds, their gaping, beaked mouths crushing the skulls of children with horns, the grey stone soaking up the dim lighting surrounding them. In paintings, warriors were bursting from the skulls of the beasts, black flames enveloping them, their faces twisted in rage and anguish. They used to frighten Caledfwlch as a child, but when he was with a companion, they were easier to bear. They were warnings, stories. Those beasts were their Gods, and they hated those who disobeyed them and anointed those who loved them to the highest throne.

They arrived at their destination, only mildly surprised to find that it was already inhabited by other member of their family. Caledfwlch recognized a few, but his clan was so vast that he didn't even know their names.

The room itself was impressive, and one might even call it peculiar. It had a high dome ceiling, with dirty, blackened glass for a roof, framed by gilded iron. The room itself was rather small and circular, containing dirty marble and bloodstains on the floor and walls from sacrifices. On the walls (besides stains) were runes of old prayers, some so elderly that certain parts had been worn smooth, only faint outlines dictating what they said. There were decrepit oak benches surrounding a hearth that glowed dimly in spite the bright sunlight out. It could fit, at a bit of a squeeze, around fifty people; however, considering that it was preferred to pray in a less crowded place, there were only about eleven there. The two boys made thirteen.

Carcino beckoned him to the front, closest to the hearth. This hearth being the very one Caledfwlch came from. As they sat, Caledfwlch felt a sense of unease much like the one he felt when he was in the hallway. It seemed to be a reoccurring incident, for the closer the blond got to his birthplace, the more his head would buzz with the white noise of his infancy. He could never quite make out the noise, and had no interest in trying to remember the source of the ailment. He was too concerned with the outcome.

Both boys sat on the carpet between the rows of benches, legs tucked underneath them and head bowed. Taking turns, they dipped their fingers into the murky black water before them in small trays and rubbed the bridges of their noses with them. "Do you want me to lead us, Caledfwlch, or should I go fetch our Seer?" Carcino murmured, hushed by the nature of the room. His eyes never left the hearth, as though he was transfixed by the simmering coals.

The other shook his head. "No," He replied, eyes closing. "I know воевать well enough to say a prayer to it." He bit his lip, eyebrows drawing together as they both bowed their heads. He waited, patiently, for his words to flow. Rushing a prayer meant asking for the wrong things, and thus led to disrespecting the Gods, and thus led to death.

His lips parted.

**"My sword is dipped into the pool of my God's love**

**With it my blows reek of black tendrils of mayhem**

**With it they pierce the rotting hearts of my loathsome enemy who is putrid in all their false glory**

**They steal the children of my enemies and make them slaves**

**Make them their meals, for my god eats heathens**

**And my God makes my children their angels**

**And they do as their master commands**

**If my foe is my blood**

**Show them mercy**

**I am forbidden to."**

After prayers were said and an offering of their banner was burnt, they quickly exited the room. No comment was made about Caledfwlch's strange verses until he was already removing his clothes.

"Caledfwlch, what was the meaning of that prayer…? The one from earlier, I mean," Carcino finally mentioned, unfolding the tunic that had been chosen for him. "That was eldritch in every sense of the word."

Caledfwlch hummed. "Isn't that the point? You were the one that wanted to pray to the War God." he grabbed his leggings from the other, pulling them up with relative ease. "Oh, Carcino, am I supposed to wear my armor today?"

"Ah, I don't think so. It'd be a fucking shame if you did, considering there's going to be beautiful women there. Wouldn't want you to sweat through your damn knickers like that poor, royal blue bastard … Do you think he's going to be there?"

"Don't know, don't really care."

Carcino clucked his tongue, throwing shoes at the other for him to wear. "In any case, you're diverting me! I didn't know you could be so utterly… morbid. 'Black tendrils of mayhem'? And I'm pretty damn sure you mentioned the Gods devouring children. "

"But that's what they do, brother. They rape, slaughter, and devour as they please. They favor the youth due to their innocence and ability to disobey. Zazzerpan has been telling me all of this; you should pay more attention during our lessons."

"Gods, what has Zazzerpan been putting in your head…? This is an old, old teaching."

Caledfwlch shot him a dark look. "Don't say that. I like him. For an older gentleman, he's pretty sound in his logic. Besides, he's teaching me how to do…you know."

"The-? OH. Oh, yes, of course. That. Well, then that makes him alright," Carcino retorted, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I think you need to just stay with the Heir, let him rub off on you a little too."

"You'd be the only one that thinks that," The blonde sighed, sitting in front of his vanity, head propped on his hands. "Both my young master's father and Hephaestus think that my master and I are… 'consorting'." He almost laughed at the way Carcino's mouth dropped open. "I swear it, both reminded me of my place."

The brunet's eyebrows rose with disbelief. "Are you _fucking_ joking? They insinuated you'd do something so… so… _ungodly_?" He shook his head, making his hands busy by fidgeting with the washrag in the water bin by the vanity. "Honestly, to think that they would accuse you of… of _being_ with the Heir like that…."

Caledfwlch became a tad tense. "What's wrong with it if I was or was not? Now _you're _the one being slightly old-fashioned. If I was, it was for the Heir only. If it came to where that was what he wanted of me, then I would be happy to oblige. It is my duty to provide for him whatever care he thinks he needs." The other seemed to grow indignant at that. "Besides, that is none of your concern. The Gods will rip me to shreds if they see my actions unworthy. You wouldn't treat me disrespectfully for doing my solemn duty, even if that did include a sin, would you, cousin?"

There was a slight pause, and Carcino grew from annoyed to uncomfortable. "…I-I… guess not," He finally relented. "But I wouldn't approve in the slightest!" He added, shaking a finger at the other. "…But I wouldn't hate you, or even tell on you. That's childish, and you are, for all purposes, my friend. Even though I lay awake at night worrying about your spiritual wellbeing."

That made the blond smirk, finally. "I'm sure it does. Your snores display that well… But, no, Carcino. My relationship with the Heir is one of brotherhood. I would never desire him outside of that unless he bids me to feel otherwise." The other boy sighed again, sitting awkwardly on Caledfwlch's bed. Caledfwlch stood, gesturing to his clothing. "This is what you picked for me? Am I seriously meeting women here? If so, I feel pity for their hearts."

His clothing consisted of a blood red tunic with sleeves that ended halfway on his forearm, with silver trim on the cuffs, ends, and collar, which encircled his neck and then cut into a v to show a thin, white dragon's skin undershirt. His belt was a chocolate brown, his family's symbol- a flame- imbedded in bronze stones. Under his tunic, he wore tight, dragon skin leggings that clung to his legs, and with those, deep brown boots with onyx buckles and belts. On his hands were equally dark colored, leather gloves, the backs of which featured the symbol he was given at birth- a cog. On his head was a laurel made of bent and magically softened iron, declaring his status as the Heir's first servant and the future head of his family. The laurel was woven like tree limbs, with tiny apple blossoms peeking through molded leaves. Once he was dressed impeccably, he took a medallion from his desk and strung it around his neck. On it was the same cog symbol, etched into the silver by hand.

He hated his symbol with a passion. The uses of those little objects were to power clocks, nothing more. Caledfwlch personally saw them as useless. What was the point of a clock, if not to demonstrate a particular time? All that needed to be known was morning, noon, and night, and one can simply look to the sky for that answer. Why was a simple, little cog his God-given symbol?

Carcino sighed. "Oh, yes, mock my talents at choosing clothes for you. Does the Heir do that too?" He retorted, his own clothes a dark grey and black version of Caledfwlch's- without the laurel, of course. His symbol, however, was of two fish- or the symbols of fish, rather- circling each other. This was a holy symbol, and it secured him in a job as a holy man should his duties never be called forth. "I think this is a string- you dress the Heir, I dress you, and we are all just standing around playing bloody fucking dress-up while the Gods roll in Heaven praising our skills in dressing to the fucking nines."

Caledfwlch snorted. "Amusing," He commented, eyes rolling. He turned to the stand where he kept his sword. Like his brother, he polished it regularly, despite it being actually quite low quality. He took it from the stand, sliding the strap of the sheath over his shoulder. "Well, at least the Queen will be pleased. Look at you, though."

Ah, there was Carcino's infamous scowl. "What the fuck's wrong with black?! Black is a very powerful color, I'll have you know!"

"Yes. Because it represents death."

"And? Maybe I'm trying to be more traditional and demonstrate the God's affections for Death!"

"Ha, unlikely. You just don't like wearing the same things as I do."

"No, I happen to just really hate wearing red! It's a boon for me, you know it's impossible to understand. YOU have nothing to do with it!"

"You are a liar, and we are both going to have our arses handed to us on a platter if we piddle around more."

This thought dawned on both of them at the same time, and they both paled. "…Right…" Carcino swallowed. "Onward, yes? I don't want to fight your brother, he's vicious…"

"He's not vicious, he's suave. A hero."

"A tyrant."

"Well, obviously. He's a suave tyrant, of the most suave nature."

The brunet shoved him, passing him and taking his arm to speed him along. "Get moving! You're going to be fighting Arisen, and you know how she gets with fighting."

The blond frowned. Ah, so that explained the true nature of praying to воевать. He'd need all the help he could get against her. She worshipped death like it was its own religion.

A short horse ride away from the grand castle was an open field perfect for the day's festivities. Being the afternoon, it was already filled with peasantry and noble alike, though the two didn't mingle much. The color blue surrounded them. It was on the banners, the coverings of the stables, the stands, worn by the peasantry. The sweet smell of confectionaries overwhelmed the boys as they dismounted form their steeds, giving the reins to the stable hand. It was crowded; however, the ocean of people parted for the two.

It was out of a fear. The red family was considered something to be meek around, what with their power and skills unrivaled by the masses. Even the children were considered dangerous. No, forgo that statement. The children were considered the most dangerous.

"Come along, Caledfwlch. We have to find the others and greet them," Carcino stated, tugging on the blond's sleeve. Caledfwlch nodded, falling in step with the younger, eyes flitting about warily.

Loud laughter transformed to hushed murmurs as the light-haired Knight walked by, head held high and face blank. He was their prodigy, their future military might. He would have the power to draft their young men, just like Hephaestus had previously. The older man had led 5,000 of their husbands, brothers, and sons into battle against the beasts that lived outside the walls, and while he returned victorious, he also returned with less than a thousand of them.

Carcino wasn't the one they were parting for.

Their family's tent was a dark red, Hephaestus's crest a brighter red on the flap. Carcino lifted up the flap, letting Caledfwlch in first. They were both greeted with loud yelling that made them both groan. It seemed as though the Heir and his cousins took over their tent.

The Knight felt a surge of joy upon seeing his friend. The morning discomforts were forgotten in his mind, and the bright blue eyes reflected every ounce of his happiness. It made Caledfwlch want to take a hold of him, wrap his cloak around his body, and keep him warm and safe and permanently in that state of bliss forever. It made his heart swell until he was worried it would simply burst.

He mused in that split second. After all, thoughts go by in the human mind so much faster than what one thinks. Did the Heir feel the same? Did his Heir cherish him as Caledfwlch did to him?

It was then that the Knight realized he'd realize his friend's name. The Winds, Zillyhoo. The simple named made his façade start to crumble, despite his presence in front of others. He stood before his companion, neither no longer nameless. Now, Caledfwlch knew everything about the other.

It was a terrible thing, he realized. A truly terrible thing, knowing everything about another human being. There was no secret, no mystery behind those blue eyes. And yet, when met with Caledfwlch's red, Zillyhoo only knew a familiar stranger. He knew a creature, a shadow, born to protect and fight and die, with wings that aided in shielding him and a face that imitated a human, and he accepted it as a man without truly seeing. He didn't know a Caledfwlch that wasn't there to provide for him. He wouldn't know until much later that such a man even lived. There was much about the law that Zillyhoo wouldn't approve of, and there was much that he wouldn't understand. This would be doubly so when applied to Caledfwlch himself. And that would never change.

Zillyhoo grinned, dashing up and tackling him, wrapping an arm around his neck. "Hello, Caledfwlch!" He greeted, teasingly, as though he was catching the other in the act of stealing or masturbating.

Caledfwlch paled. He knew his name? Slowly, his eyes moved to the two other royalties in the room, and he glared darkly. They must have found out and told him.

Zillyhoo's smile wavered at the other's sheepish expression. "I'm not mad, friend. You wanted to wait until I had my name, right? So that we could tell each other?"

"…Right." Caledfwlch agreed , smiling a bit. Of course he would immediately lie to his Heir. "So that is it? Your name? Zillyhoo, the Wind. Fitting, if not incredibly obvious. I should have placed bets and made more theories," He taunted right back, knocking his head lightly against Zillyhoo. "I'm glad you've finally made an identity, friend. I'm glad our bond is so thick that I knew it automatically."

"Ha. I hide nothing from you, you know that."

Carcino rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, very touching, yes. That's all fine and dandy. Congratulations, your Majesty. Now get the fuck out, the lot of you," He deadpanned, storming up to the blue family.

One of John's cousins stepped forward. She had tanned skin- lighter than Carcino, but darker than Zillyhoo- and wild, ebony hair, only tamed by the webbed veil she wore that pulled her hair away from her forehead. She must have been competing, because she wasn't dressed in a gown like the other women were meant to. She wore a cerulean tunic lined with black trim, leather chaps underneath the tunic and dark grey riding boots on her feet. Her breasts were bound by her chainmail and wool undergarments, but they were large enough to still be visible- her only visible disadvantage. She held her riding gloves in her right hand, her symbol- the Spider- sewn into the leather. She wore heavy kohl and deep blue lipstick, and her ears were decorated with gold and gems. Coupled with her defined leg muscles and arms, her appearance stated that while she was an obvious warrior (and, for this festival, a jouster), she held her looks in high esteem.

Her body language exuded confidence; confidence that might have been a front and excuse for her obvious arrogance. Her right hand on her hip and her left twirling a lock of her hair, she regarded Carcino with a sly grin. "Are you really going to dismiss my idea, Carcino? That's not fair. And, as your better, I demand you stand the hell down," She ordered, smile shifting to a threatening glare. She was correct in correcting Carcino. As a royalty, she was his superior, and he ordering her about was a ballsy move.

Carcino growled, taking a threatening step forward, obviously not caring in the slightest. Zillyhoo, however, yelped and stood between them before swords were drawn. "Now, now, guys! Calm down, this tent has too many people in it for a fight to end well." He smiled at his cousin, eyebrows drawn together. "Aha, Arachnid, remember, we don't kill our comrades."

Ah, Arachnid. Figures she'd be named after her beloved spiders. Caledfwlch had only known her as the Thief, her title given when her birth was due to her mother stealing a married noble from his dying wife, like a spider snatching prey once it happened into her web.

She pouted, crossing her arms. She did, however, relent. "Fine…" She muttered darkly, shooting a dark glare at Carcino. "But only because his Majesty said so."

"Aye," Carcino agreed, taking a step back. "It's our Heir's birthday."

Zillyhoo smiled again. "Heh. Greetings, Carcino," he greeted as well, wiggling his eyebrows to incite a reaction from the other. When he got it- sputters and glares- he turned his head, regarding Caledfwlch with a look of relief. "Already I have to uphold the honor of my nobles. I'll make a wondrous leader, eh?"

The Knight nodded, pulling Carcino away another two feet and placing a hand on the Heir's shoulder. "Come on, friend. Get the Thief and her friend out of here, you know my family needs our tent," he said to him in a pleading tone. "And you know that Arachnid and Carcino don't fancy each other in the slightest."

Zillyhoo's eyebrows knit together in thought. "…Aye, aye…You're right," He sighed. "But I…well, I wanted to see you before you went off and won for my glory."

The blond smirked. "Isn't there some etiquette against that?"

"…Shut up." Zillyhoo shoved him, hiding his laugh and embarrassed blush as he took Arachnid's hand. "Come on, Centaur. Let's go get you two signed up for the games!"

"Right-o, that's the spirit, Zillyhoo!" Arachnid laughed a cackling laugh all the way out of the tent, winking at the two boys in a taunting fashion.

"Hehe. Bye, Caledfwlch! Bye, Carcino!"

A tall, hulking figure that had been silent walked past the two soldiers, huffing and sweating quite a bit, no doubt from being a spectator to their familiar dealings with each other. The two gave each other looks of realization. That's the poor, blue bastard. He'd grown quite a bit since they last saw each other, and even that was a polite way of putting it.

Carcino mouthed a profane word of surprise when Centaur passed. "Gods, I didn't know a thirteen-year-old could grow to be so massive," He muttered once they were alone. "And for starters, who do those bastards think they are? Just barging in… Fuck, I bloody fucking hate Arachnid."

"You don't hate anyone, bite your tongue." He sighed, stretching his limbs. "Besides, it was Zillyhoo's idea to come in here. He wanted to tell me his name. I suppose he didn't realize our bond would enable me to learn it just by meeting his gaze. Majyyk is a very peculiar thing sometimes, wouldn't you say?"

The brunet hummed. He copied his cousin, eyes flitting to the opening of their tent. "He barely even spoke to me," he commented, referring to the Heir. "I know we hardly know each other…however-"

"He said hi, didn't he?" the Knight interceded. "Plus, he teased you like he always does. Come now, Carcino, have mercy. He's easily distracted when surrounded by people. If you want to become more familiar with our Heir, then you should speak to him more at the formal ball tonight."

"Ah, yes… that's happening tonight, isn't it?"

"If the Gods permit it."

"Amen."

Little by little, the members of their family that were competing leaked in. This being a noble-only competition, there were only a few of them.

Of course, there was Arisen, dressed in a maroon tunic that stopped at her knees, and her leggings were a dark grey and loose around her legs. The symbol of the Ram rested on her iron breastplate. Her hair was pulled back like Arachnid's had been, but with no veil. Instead, she wore a maroon hijab, only a couple wild curls resting over her forehead. It was a conservative, but completely acceptable action in the red family. After all, hair was not worth debate or regulation. And with women so uncommon in their family and often far more accomplished (read that as frightening), they were treated just a well as the men.

Unlike Arachnid, she wore no makeup at all. Her natural beauty showed through her maroon eyes, a haunting, melancholy gaze reflecting her years training in the Dead Fields.

Because of her beauty, Arisen had a history of suitors coming to her for her hand. Her name before she'd been given a real one had been the Maid, simply because she held her purity like it was a prized treasure. Of course, no one questioned what became of her suitors when they attempted to disturb her meditation… It was simply up to the imagination.

Following her was Armageddon and Toreador. Both were barely holding legitimacy to the red family's name with their yellow and light brown colors, respectively. Still, despite their low colors, they still proved to be as able as the next man, and that was enough for Hephaestus to give them the same rights as a pureblooded member.

Armageddon was a lanky boy, thin, but quick in every sense of the word. He was the most intelligent, analytical mind the family had, and it showed clearly in his sharp, gold eyes. In fact, quick and sharp were two words to describe him perfectly. Sharp eyes, sharp jawline and cheekbones. His hair was a inky, tamed, spiked mess, styled in a way that ten years prior would have been considered a feminine bob. Styles did change very quickly in their land, and he pleasured in past styles. It showed in his clothing, also. His dark yellow tunic touched the ground, hiding his loose, airy trousers and slippers. His sleeves, decorated with red lines and swirls, ended at his wrists, black gloves covering his hands. His hood was up, shadowing the top half of his face, but not so that made him seem ominous. Sunlight was not a luxury he was given often, and it no doubt burned him if he was out too long. He was a wizard in training (though he'd been given a name two days before, he'd had the name Mage, the second tier in becoming a wizard), full time, whereas Caledfwlch and Carcino were merely taking classes. He spent his time poured over books, learning, learning, and learning more still.

Toreador was an entirely different matter. Where Armageddon was sharp, he was soft. Round face, heavier set (which, when compared to the other, was only a bit heavier than Carcino), with a dark tan and lighter, dark brown hair, styled as a messy Mohawk. He wasn't as smart as Armageddon- one would even argue he was the least intelligent there- but that didn't mean he was an imbecile. In fact, where he lacked in analytical sense, he gained in common sense and compassion. He was also the most dedicated out of all of them, training to be both wizard and soldier- a Page, the first tier of wizardly status. His stature wasn't impressive, and neither was his confidence, but when he spoke, Carcino and others listened.

Caledfwlch, however, didn't have much patience for him, and often ignored him. It was partially due to Toreador's obsession with proving himself to the future head by trying to outsmart him, partially due to Caledfwlch's apathy towards half of his own family. Any interaction longer than a minute usually ended up with Caledfwlch humiliating him, and having one of Toreador's companions soothe the brown-eyed boy.

He was dressed as Arachnid was, excluding the gold jewelry, and his colors were variations of deep reds and browns. In his hand, he held his jousting lance, painted with whimsical colors.

Toreador smiled meekly at Carcino. "Ah…Hello, cousin. And… my lord," His lips pulled thin when addressing Caledfwlch, and he only nodded once.

"Oi." Caledfwlch had begun to busy himself with stretching. "Oh, Arisen, prepare to meet your maker today. I'm going to wipe the floor with you, girlie," He declared coolly, craning his neck to look at her.

Arisen merely blinked. Emotionlessly, she plainly stated, "We are fighting on grass, not floor. Secondly, actual skill will be required to defeat me."

Armageddon snickered, crossing his arms and leaning closer to the girl. "Hehe. You tell 'im, AR."

Carcino rolled his eyes, fingers rubbing his temples. "You are all spoiled, petty children, and I hope the Gods strike you down for being sarcastic, sassy shits to each other."

"Well. Calling the pot black, kettle?" The Mage snickered at that as well, nodding to the Knight.

Suddenly, however, Armageddon paled. "Ah, Arithen, you did remember to go and cleanthe, didn't you?" He asked quickly, that trademark lisp he possessed coming forth. It was his one weakness, and it often rendered him silent.

She nodded. "Of course. I would not forfeit the chance to beg for mercy from the gods." She paused a beat. "I'm assuming you have chosen the God of War for this situation?"

Both Carcino and Caledfwlch stiffened. She always had a tendency to predict actions they'd taken. "Uh… aye, aye, I- we- did," the lighter haired admitted, standing slowly. The other ran a hand through his hair, turning his head from the scene unfolding in an attempt to distance himself from it.

"That won't help you. In fact, I'm quite positive your words doomed us all." Her face was so utterly passive, eyes so bleak and emotionless. It sent chills down Caledfwlch's spine. Did she know the words he'd said? Something in her eyes- those damned, empty eyes- told him yes. She exuded death from her, thanks to her time in the Dead Fields, and whatever words of doom she spoke, they were met with sobering silence.

Naturally, there wasn't much talking after that. Light food was brought to them, and they all ate in relative silence. Armageddon stood close to Arisen regardless of her words, and Toreador was too shaken and unnerved by Arisen's declaration to even bother trying to speak any more than what was necessary. They were sure that he wanted to say far more than just the greeting he was allowed, but at that moment, nobody cared.

Nerves began to set in as a messenger entered the tent, telling them that it was their turn to be counted and put into their respective contests. The feeling spread through everyone visibly (save for Arisen, of course, who seemed utterly content and even excited for once).

Carcino hung back with Caledfwlch, swallowing thickly. "…I love her-"

"-But she's nuts, I know," He finished, tightening his belt. He glanced at the shorter, a tiny smirk crossing his lips.

"Maybe if we'd prayed to the God of Contest-"

"Oh, fuck you, just _fuck you_."


End file.
